Something awful

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I was hungry, and willing to wait until five for a ride. The employees at Subway were nice to me, and sometimes gave me an extra cookie or let me have my sandwich for the special price instead of the regular price. It was quiet, save for the constant buzz of the radio and some songs that suckered me into complacency.

That Friday, there was a football game. I had my notebook, and was prepared to wait just a little while.

I felt a tension in the pit of my stomach when I realized how crowded the small sandwich shop had gotten. The line was not so bad, but there were only two open chairs, both next to people I disliked. Syed, Marcin, and some other acquaintances or friends of theirs. But I wouldn’t be scared of them – they were bullies, not monsters.

I got my sandwich, Turkey with every kind of vegetable, cheese, but no pickles or mayonnaise or anything in the liquid state of matter, aside from the drink I had. Root beer, or a medley of sodas depending on my mood.

There was only one seat, and it was dark, and chilly outside. I would not sit alone outside waiting for a ride. I approached, and as calmly as I could I asked, “Is anyone sitting here?”

“No,” Syed said, and the pair of boys moved their backpacks to the booth so that I could sit. It was a polite enough gesture, and I settled down and began to eat, checking the clock to my left every thirty seconds, as was my custom.

The conversation was, I assume, typical of teenage boys, particularly the kind who are bad at the sport they’ve dedicated two hours a night to practicing. Blah blah blah, isn’t Coach a dumbass? Or mimicking speech patterns they found odd. Malicious, yes, but I assumed it was none of my business and kept to my sandwich. I finished it in five minutes and pulled out my notebook, quietly scribbling the outline of a story I’d been yearning to write.

But I could still hear them speaking. Their subject matter changed very quickly, now that I was within earshot.

“You know, uh, Marcin, isn’t Israel the most hated country in the world?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

A fake conversation – one they were not invested in but were having anyways.

“They should just blow it up. Make it a parking lot.”

Maybe I cringed, or scowled, but I could hear them laughing a bit, and I started to scribble a transcript instead of the outline I had aimed to finish. A wasted piece of paper, I thought.

Something anti-semetic, something rude, something hateful. My heart was racing in my chest as I started doodling instead, hoping to calm my nerves. My stomach was in knots and I felt nauseous and sick. I just needed them to leave so I could settle down and regain myself. I stopped listening to what they said, just knew that it was intended for me, and that they were trying to hurt me, and it was working.

And I hated that it was working.

They got up and left, and once their backpacks had left the booth I switched from the metal-backed chair and popped into the corner of the booth. I curled up, my notepad resting on my legs while I scribbled down what had transpired, bent on showing it to my dean and counselor.

I knew they were trying to get at me because no one shifts from a hated teacher to the popularity of a country that just so happens to be filled with Jews while there’s a Jew sitting right next to the conversationalists.

No one. Especially not two kids who believed their futures were steeped in politics.

Not anymore, I decided, closing the journal and starting to tap-tap-tap on the table in a fury. The knot in my gut had yet to unwind, and I couldn’t just wait it out. I was too angry. I couldn’t cry, because the security guard and my dean had entered, and I couldn’t look weak.

They said hi, and I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, I was paralyzed. What would I say? Would they believe me, or the straight-A students who had just harassed me out of the blue? The two straight-A students who would lie in a heartbeat and without batting an eye.

Sociopaths, I decided. Narcissistic, pathological liars.

“Hi,” I replied, and, “I’m alright,” even though there was no way they should have believed me. They bought their sandwiches, and part of me hoped that they would stay and somehow their mere presence would protect me, like a dream catcher warding off nightmares, but they left with their food. Probably off to see the football game.

I wanted to scream – I wanted to pound my fists on the table and stomp on the floor and look autistic so that maybe someone would pity me the way that they would pity my brother. But I was still as stone and quiet, save for the light tapping on the table.

And when they came back, I was scared. I wasn’t afraid of the boys. Quite the opposite – they should have been afraid that I would react. I know I was.

If I hit them, I could do some serious damage. Bigger than me though they were, they would not expect a girl of my size and rumored athletic impairment to be as strong or as fast as I was. And the skill, the raw skill that came along with the years of practice, was more than they would have. Just the knowledge of why we weren’t allowed to make face contact, why we weren’t allowed to strike at the throat, during sparring, would suffice.

But I knew I couldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t have to. Just a few more minutes.

Syed and Marcin sat down beside me and I crinkled my nose. Now I was just angry – this was just insulting.

They began their conversation again. Why Jews have big noses seemed to be the new topic of conversation, and I was now scribbling a new transcript.

“Do you know the one about the mooch at the fair?”
“No.”

“Well there was a mooch at a fair. And at the fair there were three booths where people could ask about religions. One was Islam, one was Christianity, and one was Judaism.”

How nice, I wrote, that an Islamic kid and a Christian kid can get together to harass the Jewish kid.

“And why would he turn down such just and loving religions?”

“Because Judaism served his interests best, so he became a Jew.”

The joke over, the two laughed.

“You know, f**k football. I think I might just-“

I lost the rest of the sentence, but I, an agnostic Jew, prayed that he hadn’t said he would hang out. If he stayed any longer I would soon be in court being charged with assault. Or maybe manslaughter.

“Give me that hat.”

“Don’t be a Jew.”

“You know what?!” I screamed, standing and pushing the table back. “If you two are going to be racist, why don’t you at least try to be subtle about it?!”

They stood, and shifted in what I assume was nervousy. Did they expect me to hit them? I hope so, because I really wanted to.

“Let’s go,” they said, sort of ignoring me. But it was too late, I’d already gotten everyone in the store’s attention, and the Subway employees weren’t even telling me to keep it down. I wonder how far they would have let me take it.

“Good!” I shouted. Get the f**k away from me before I do something we’ll all regret.

And they left, and I sat. And I remember going up to refill my soda and hearing the cashier whisper, as softly as she could, in English broken by her accent and what I assume was shock, “Are you OK?”

“Maybe,” I admitted, feeling a little better now that the two had left the store with their tails between their legs. It was a small victory, and I wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

Especially not Syed.

I noticed a couple of grammatical things that irked me, but not enough to not get the point across. I think it was well written.

Sorry you had to deal with a couple of ignorant dickwads. If I was next to you at the time, I would have taken a swipe at them.